


Drabble Series

by Serpenscript



Series: Drabble Compilation [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Comfort, Consensual Underage Sex, Creature Fic, Cross-Generation Relationship, Cuddling & Snuggling, Death, Delayed Orgasm, Dildos, F/M, Gen, Grief, Insanity, Letters, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Masturbation, Multi, Nightmares, Nipple Play, Nudity, Orgasm Denial, Other, Post-Coital Cuddling, Slave Training, Sleepy Sex, Starvation, Suicide, Threesome, Torture, Underwater, Underwater Sex, creature heritage, mer-creature, mermaid, wanking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-27
Updated: 2015-11-30
Packaged: 2018-05-03 16:46:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 4,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5298797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Serpenscript/pseuds/Serpenscript
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drabble series</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Severus/Mille Prompt: What is beauty, anyway?

"Don't look at me." She looks anywhere but at him: at the floor, at the walls. She covers herself with her hands. "Please turn off the light. I'm ugly, fat."

"What does beauty even mean?" he answers. He makes her turn in the light from the windows, until the light halos every flaw. Her heavy jaw, her frizzy hair, her thick thighs and hanging breasts.

He sees curves he can hold to himself at night. He sees a stubborn jaw that says she can hold her own against his temper. He sees untamed hair because she spends more time on more important things. _Beautiful_ , he thinks.


	2. Snape/Luna/Neville Prompt: Chase, Rescue

They're enemies.

No: they're _rivals_. Determined to make her choose between them, determined to not lose to each other.

But when she's in danger, Neville puts aside his rivalry for her sake, bursting into his classroom. "They're chasing her," he blurts, and he doesn't even say who: who is chasing, who is being chased. He doesn't need to.

Severus is out of his chair in an instant, wand grasped in his hand. And together the chasers become the chased, and when spells fly and splash against the walls, they stand back to back.

Luna clings to them both afterwards, trembling. "Don't make me choose," she whispers, "Please don't make me lose either of you."

They look at each other over her head, size each other up, then nod reluctantly. She _has_ chosen, after all, and because she means everything to them both, they'll accept her choice.


	3. Snape/Lupin Prompt: old pervert, fight

"No. No, I don't _want_ to go to another club," Remus says petulantly. "I don't _want_ to watch you watching young flexible men stripping and flexing while you pant over them, you - you bloody old pervert!"

Severus raises an eyebrow at him over his newspaper. "I can go by myself if it doesn't interest you."

Lupin's fraying patience snaps, and he's on his feet instantly, the table shoved aside, Snape's cup of tea shattered on the floor - tea soaks into the newspaper in sepia splotches. "I am _right here_ ," he snarls. "I want you to stare at _me_ , dammit!"

And Severus smiles slowly, flows to his feet and stalks forward with predatory grace. "I didn't think I'd have to take you to so many clubs to get you angry," he purrs. "And I like seeing you angry. _You_ are irresistible, wolf, when you are raging at me."


	4. Snape Prompt: worse things, skinny

His stomach cramps painfully with hunger. He is skinny - gaunt, even; his ribs are visible, his hips are sharp peaks, his eyes are sunken. He knows his spine is a line of knobby bumps. The smell of food - simple soup though it is - is a torment. His mouth waters - he's allowed water, at least - but he isn't allowed to touch any of the food they set before him. 

He doesn't touch any of it, no matter his hunger. There are worse things than the pain of starvation, worse things than smelling food he is forbidden. 

There are _always_ worse things.


	5. Draco/Luna, Bellatrix Prompt: wings, shared fears

  
"How are you not afraid?" He asks her. He can't imagine not being afraid of _something_ , or a whole lot of somethings: of pain, torture, death, losing those he cares about. He's afraid that by the time the war is over, he'll be all alone.

Her smile is sweet, innocent, breathtaking. "I know if it gets too terrible, I can fly away."

"You don't _have_ wings," he says scornfully.

"Everyone has wings, deep inside them." She draws wings with her fingers in the air, unbothered by his derision. He likes that about her. And he likes it when she teaches him another way to fly that night, with hands and lips and their whole bodies, a way that makes his body sing in flight.

But the night she stands on the astronomy tower, backed against the edge by Death Eaters, he is again afraid.

"Tell is where Potter is, or we'll torture it out of you, to death if we have to," his aunt snarls.

Bellatrix has _been_ torturing her - Luna is already trembling from repeated uses of the Cruciatus. But her smile is just as beautiful, just as breathtaking.

And when she jumps to the edge of the railing, balances for a moment with her arms outspread, when she leaps out - he expects to see wings miraculously unfurl. Despite the impossibility, he  _trusts_ her when she says she can fly.

But then she falls.

She falls, and later, she is buried. Draco mourns her death, then hardens his heart. He tells himself that she lied, that people _don't_ have wings and therefore can't possibly fly. He carries this hurt, this _betrayal_ inside him for years, because the hurt is easier.

He watches his friends marry and grow old and die, leaving him behind one by one. Until one day he _understands_ , leaning over the railing of a bridge and watching the water run underneath. He is old and weary, but he finally understands what she meant

 _Everyone_ has wings deep inside, and that day Draco stands on the railing of the bridge, unfurls his own wings, and leaps.

He knows she will catch him, when he sees her again. And then they will fly forever, on wings of light.


	6. Snape/Luna, rain, tongues

  
He should be grumpy that they're outside. It's raining, his hair - unattractive even when it's clean and dry - is stuck to his face in clumps, his robes are soaked, his boots are ankle deep in mud.

It's cold autumn rain - there's no _other_ kind of autumn rain in Scotland - but he ignores the cold water running down his neck to watch the girl next to him. A young woman, but the expression on her face as she spins - barefoot in the mud, sodden blond hair whirling and flinging raindrops, face turned up to the overcast sky to catch raindrops on her tongue - is sweet, childish delight, untainted by adult concerns.

He should tell her to wear her coat, to use a water-off spell, to wear shoes to protect her feet. He should tell her that there is nothing clean and pure about the rain falling from polluted skies.

Instead he watches, and - because no one but her will see, and she makes him feel this way - he lets the corners of his mouth curl up into a smile.


	7. Luna/Neville, Prompt: broken, flobberworms, rain

Broken, the wizard at St Mungo's calls her. Irrevocable. Insane. She remembers little, day to day; who is cruel, who is kind, who takes care of her.

It doesn't make any difference to him. Her memory is broken, but the thing that makes Luna Luna, that otherness that she has in spades, is still there, and he can't stop loving her just because she's forgotten she loves him most. She still loves him, in her own way, and he's content with that.

"We're getting flobberworms for Hagrid today," he says as he helps her dress. Orange and pink blouse, purple skirt with silver swirls. She adds a lime green sash, and refuses the socks. "The heavy rains have made them all come up to the surface. There's a mud wallow that should be a likely spot to find them."   
  
"Mud?" she asks thoughtfully, then brightens. "Rain puddles? Can we jump in rain puddles? Jump in one three times, then backwards, and you might see a Winklewunner!"

"We can try if you want," he says.

It hurts sometimes that she doesn't remember his proposal (in the rain) or their wedding (on a boat, also in the rain), but that she never forgets her creatures. She's stuck permanently somewhere in her childhood.

But when she's distracted - not by rain puddles, or butterflies, or flobberworms, but by dapple of sunlight through leaves and music only she can hear - he finds it easy to leave his grief behind and love her solely as she is. He watches as she dances with sweet abandon, and falls in love all over again.   
  



	8. Severus/Neville Prompt: comfort, sleep

  
"Shhh. Go back to sleep. It's ok. You're not alone," Neville says quietly from the other side of the bed. Gently he wraps an arm around his lover's waist, careful to not pin his arms to his sides, even if it leaves him free to flail in whatever nightmare he sees.

"No," Severus moans, low and desperate. "No, _please_ , don't, I can't -"

It sounds as if he is the one being tortured, but Neville knows - because Severus has told him, in the vulnerable moments when he wakes from a nightmare - that his dreams are about others being tortured. Tortured and killed, until there is no one left alive that Severus cares about, leaving him alone. That when his spying had been exposed, Voldemort had taunted him, told him he would die alone and unmourned, because no one would be left alive who cared.

"Shhhh," Neville says again, and he soothes and pets Severus, spoons up against him and - when that fails, ruts against him, pressing his insistent morning erection against his lover's bony arse. "Wake _up_ , Sev, this would be more fun with us both participating, and I'm _not_ sharing you with some damn nightmare of a dead madman -"

He knows when Severus wakes enough to realize he isn't alone, and when he begins to rock back against him, grinding against him, Neville knows he's back in the present.

They fuck often; hard, frantic sex meant to remind themselves that yes, they _are_ alive. It is no less desperate and frantic after a nightmare, and Severus trembles impatiently while Neville summons the lube and prepares him hastily.

It is hard and frantic and desperate but no less _real_ \- the sound Severus makes low in his throat when Neville slides into him, the way Neville bites his shoulder, the way Severus claws at the bedsheets and shouts when Neville makes him see stars.

But when it's over, with their seed cooling on their skin between their bodies, when they hold each other and let their breath even out, they whisper things they say no other time.

_You're not alone. I'm not leaving. I love you._


	9. Raising the Stakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Random.org says:** Snape/Neville, letters, orgasm denial

Severus sneers at the letter and crumples it in a fist, frustration burning through him.   
  
It is a perfectly normal letter from his lover, full of day to day news and gossip about Neville's trip to South Africa, the plants he's finding and the things he's learning, but it's the rest - the note at the end - that frustrates him.

> _And Sev, I had this idea. I want you to masturbate every day while I'm gone. Finger yourself, use toys, whatever you want that feels good, feel free to experiment. I want you to tease yourself to the brink of orgasm - when your toes are curling from it, you're that close - and then stop. Don't let yourself come. I want you to be aching and desperate for me to come home, ready to jump me the minute I walk through the door, begging to be fucked blind, the way you like it. Wild and rough and animalistic -_
> 
> _Bet you're hard just from reading that, aren't you? But it'll only happen if you don't come until I get home. Tell me all about it, will you? In detail._
> 
> _Miss you,_   
>  _Nev_

And _damn_ Neville, because he _is_ hard. His cock is hard and _aching_ at the image the letter has put into his head - and he knows he'll do it. And he knows that _Neville_ knows he'll do it, which is just as frustrating as the thought of denying himself orgasm for more than two months.

_Experiment indeed_ , he thinks sourly as he carries the crumpled letter into his office and locks the door. _Well, two can play this game!_ He snarls as he lays out fresh parchment and a quill, then settles into his chair to write a return letter - unbuttoning his trousers to free his erection as he does so. 

> _My perverse and twisted lover,_  
>    
> _I do think it is only fair that you agree to the same. That, as I sit here trailing the feathery tip of my quill over my aching prick, that you are imagining it and won't let yourself orgasm either, no matter how badly you wank and wish you were fucking me instead. Tell you about it, you say? Hmm, well, I have this dildo that's just the size and shape of your cock - should be, since it's a clone of your erection. And you can imagine the sounds I make as I ride it, the way I clench and squeeze around it, the way I arch as I take it deep, my fingers moving desperately over my own cock -_  

He isn't lying, quite; the dildo in question is from one of those muggle "clone-a-willy" kits in a disturbing glow-in-the-dark material, but it doesn't matter how it looks as much as it _feels_ , and while not comparable to the feel of his lover in person, it is quite satisfying on its own. And he's _not_ going to explain why he keeps it in a spell-locked drawer in his desk in his _office_ , along with a bottle of lubricant.

Severus amuses himself imagining how his lover will ache reading it as he fastens the dildo to the seat of his chair and lifts his robes. His trousers he lowers just enough to bare his backside; his waistcoat covers his arse but is split in back from waist down, so it won't impede anything. Still - his face is flushed with anticipation as he lowers himself down on the thick shaft, the conjured lubricant easing the friction but not the delicious burn from stretching himself open. It slides into him, inch by inch, and his cock aches and drools precome as he takes it in.   
  
When he bottoms out, settling his weight fully on the chair, he has to take a deep breath to steady himself. And it doesn't help, either, when he roughly pinches his nipples through his robes. Or that he strokes his cock roughly for a moment while rolling his hips experimentally, using his thumb to smear precome over the glans. And when it's too much, he squeezes his balls painfully and shudders until the need to orgasm eases.

So he's not exactly _riding_ it, the way his letter says, but he's supposed to be grading the students' work, not perving over his lover's letter. It's risky enough to be playing with masturbating and toys in his office, even if the door is locked.

> _Should I tell you how good it feels inside me? Stretching me, filling me? That I am perverse enough to sit here in my office grading papers, while my cock is hard and aching, and a replica of your prick is impaling my arse? And while my door IS locked - thank you very much - I have not used a silencing spell, and I can only hope there is no juvenile miscreant with their ear glued to the door to hear the sounds I am making when I shift to write a sentence, and the dildo rubs just so._
> 
> _Is your cock aching? Are you cursing me yet? Have you had to squeeze your bollocks to stave off orgasm yet? Let's raise the stakes, lover. Here is my challenge: THREE times a day, Neville. Push yourself to the edge of desperation three times every day until you see me. Experiment. Find new ways to tease and torment yourself - you can demonstrate them for me when you come home._

His breath quickens as he pens his challenge, and he clenches around the dildo, taunting himself. More leisurely he strokes himself as he considers how to end his letter, bringing himself to the edge more slowly; with his other hand he flicks open several buttons on his robe and waistcoat, so he can slide a hand under his shirt and tease his nipples to taut little sensitive nubs, biting his lip.

Viciously, he pinches his nipple, trying to pretend it is Neville's fingers - or better, his teeth, savaging him and making him moan. Then inspiration strikes and he hastily leans forward to pick up his quill again (and if his hips jerk and buck at the way the dildo shifts as he moves, and his cock bobs wildly with approval, no one is there to see it).

> _In fact, let us extend the game. Not two months, or three, but six: six months of denying ourselves orgasm, three times a day. I'm sure my funds, added to yours, will allow you to travel a few months longer. Absence makes the heart grow fond, after all. Is your heart feeling 'fond' right now, as you wank? Sitting here, impaled on a replica of your prick, my own cock making a mess of the underside of my desk, I find I am doing just fine._  
>    
> _Do enjoy your extended vacation._
> 
> _Yours,_   
>  _S. Snape_

He smiles, later, when he takes the letter up to the owlery to send, his body still hot and aching with denied orgasm, his arse pleasantly sore - he _had_ ridden the dildo, after all - quite enthusiastically, in fact; he'd send another owl to his lover tomorrow, with the details of how good _that_ felt.

With any luck at all, Neville will be home within a week, which means _he_ will be bent over and fucked blind within a week - hard and rough and animalistic, the way Neville knows he likes it.

He hums a victorious tune as he stalks back to his rooms, ignoring the erection still straining his trousers.


	10. Deep As The Sea

 

"Oh, Neville," Luna says sadly, looking at the ring he is holding out to her with a nervously hopeful look. "I want to say yes, but it wouldn't be fair. You don't know everything, you see."  
  
For a moment he looks crushed, then he sets his jaw stubbornly. "I love you, Luna, no matter what you'll say."  
  
"Even if," she says wistfully, "even if I'm not - quite - human?" She takes a deep breath and - seems to _shiver_ , and Neville can feel something sliding away in the air between them.  
  
His vision blurs, and when it clears the Luna standing in front of him is - different. Her eyes are even larger, and when he steps closer, he can see the shimmers on her cheeks and forehead are from - _scales_. Hundreds of small translucent scales. More scales and _gills_ are on her neck, and when he stares mutely she holds out a hand to him: a hand with elongated webbed fingers, and delicate sharp nails in an odd teal-turquoise color.  
  
Her smile is tentative when he puts his hand in hers. Weakly he smiles back and lets her draw him down to the edge of the lake. Vaguely he recalls stories of sirens who lure men into the water to kill them, but he keeps his eyes fixed on hers, and follows her into the water. He will trust her and prove his love - or he will _die_ for love. He won't have it any other way, though he hopes it's the former, rather than the latter.  
  
The water is _cold_ , and he almost swallows a gulp of water in shock when he submerges. But then _she_ is there, wrapping around him. Her skin is greenish-white underwater and he watches entranced as her gills flutter and bubbles escape from her mouth. Her ears are pointed and webbed, too, and her toes are long and tapered like a frog's; her movements underwater are graceful and ethereal.  
  
 _I love you,_ he tries to say, but it comes out in bubbles - _he_ , at least, is only human, and _too_ human to remember spells with Luna's surreal beauty entrancing him.  
  
Her smile is understanding, and then she places her hands - with her strange webbed fingers - on his face and pulls him in for a kiss. It makes the cold water feel warm suddenly, fills him with heat and love and _need_ , and when he pulls away for air he is shocked to realize he is breathing _water_ without drowning.  
  
"It won't last long," Luna tells him, her voice warped in a musical way. The sound carries differently under water, some notes flattened and others lengthened. "Just long enough to show you what I am. What I can do. What you pledge yourself to."  
  
"Luna," he whispers, wrapping his arms around her and groaning when she presses against him eagerly, willingly, and his need is trapped between them. He can breathe water but has none of her easy maneuverability in the lake, but she pulls him deeper, sings to him of her species, of her heritage, her magic, water swirling around him.  
  
"I love you," he says again, and his voice carries through the water in strange eddies and swirls. She laughs and swims circles around him, hair twisting around him, her fingers helping him remove the soggy clothing that drags him down, away from her. The water feels even stranger against his bare skin, and his groan when she touches his arousal, her fingers only slightly warmer than the water, is swept away by the lake's currents.  
  
"I love you," he says, when she coaxes him to explore her body in an underwater hollow, and his fingers caress the silky but hard scales on her skin, and the contrasting softness of her breasts, her hair. Her nipples, too, are blueish green, and he finds it erotic and beautiful in a fae kind of way. She arches when he touches them, and guides the warmth of his mouth to suck and tease with his tongue, her long nails combing gently through his hair.  
  
"I love you," he says, when he trembles with need, and she finally spreads her legs and straddles him. They both cry out when he pulls her down onto his erection, sheathing himself in her body, and the movements of their passion send waves through her underwater home. Her skin is cold, but she is warm and tight and welcoming where their bodies join, and he pulls her tightly to him, kisses her and fucks her under water, tells her with his hands and mouth and need that he will love her,  _all_ of her, scales and gills and all, and cries out her name when he comes, water rushing and roaring in his ears.  
  
Afterwards, sated and content, they drift in the current; her feet move lazily, turning them in a slow circle in the water, and he pets her hair and marvels at the flutter of gills against his skin, the strange harmony of soft silky skin and hard shimmering scales. "I love you," he tells her, when he can feel the magic wearing off, and he knows he will soon need to breathe air again, can feel the weight of water pressing in on him. " _Only_ you, Luna."  
  
She laughs and smiles again - he wonders if it's something about fae creatures, to laugh so often - and draws him upwards, back towards the surface and the air his human lungs need. Her webbed hands and feet propel him rapidly when he struggles to swim, struggles to  _breathe,_ the spell fading too fast, and her hands lift his head out of the water when he would slide under again.  
  
"I love you," he says yet again, when they've resurfaced, and he's drawn in a lungful of air after coughing out water. The effort of expelling a large quantity of lakewater leaves his lungs feeling raw and waterlogged, but he'll do it again in a heartbeat - every day, if she wants him to. "Please, Luna, tell me you love me too?"  
  
Her smile is wide and radiant - and mischievous. "I do love you, Neville. I said yes when I showed you what I was, and yes when I took you underwater, and yes when I rode you to completion. Yes, I will marry you - but can you love _two?_ "  
  
His confusion prompts her to add, "Mercreatures are very fertile - we might just have a little one to love, this time next year. Perhaps I should have said that first?"  
  
Her laughter rings out over the lake as she helps her husband-to-be stumble to shore.

 


End file.
